


On the necessity of longing

by witheredsong



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 10:40:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4784354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witheredsong/pseuds/witheredsong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adam divides his life into two, like the slice of a knife and the two halves dropping away from each other, cleanly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the necessity of longing

There is a secret chord. Only the blessed few ever hear it. And to play it on a broken harp-string, one must pay with all the shadows of one’s heart.

There is a secret chord. It runs through one’s veins, it echoes to the rhythms of one’s heartbeat, until the whole world overflows with the song.

Kris is sitting on the window ledge, picking out absentminded tunes, humming to himself, playing sequences over and over again with minor variations. Sometimes he writes out notations in the precariously balanced notepad on his knee, juggling with the guitar-pick and the pen. The sunshine spills into the room, gilding the edges of his hair, hollowing shadows in the sharp rise of his collarbones, sooty line of long eyelashes as he closes his eyes to a melody only he can hear. He suddenly looks up from his work, stares at Adam, who stares back, caught out in his contemplation of Kris. Kris just looks, intense, somewhat lost, looking for something in Adam’s face. Then he suddenly turns, writes out notes, words, hurried, as if he would lose the thread of a waking dream. He closes his notebook with a flourish, shakes out the cramp in his fingers and smiles at Adam, bright, warm and comforting as if the sun had spilled in a rush into the room, lighting up all the spaces between them.

After Burning Man, before Burning Man. Adam divides his life into two, like the slice of a knife and the two halves dropping away from each other, cleanly. The pain is clean, and the memories now bittersweet, instead of infected. He was somehow stripped and pared down to the bone in the desert, purified, given back a faith which made immensities possible. It is not religious, but it is spiritual.

That day where he tripped on acid, and watched the brilliant explosion of sunset colours in the dry white desert sky, something in him screaming at the waste of his potential, holding Brad’s hands and feeling lonelier than ever.

Since that day he has treated everyday as a renewed gift. Everything that happens now, every thing he achieves or fucks up is in his own hands and he will do it on his own terms. Only so that when he goes back to the desert 5 years later or 10 years later, he can see himself, and not flinch away from what he’s become.

Kris is a minefield Adam navigates with great care. Adam loves him like he loves waking up in the morning with a new tune in his head, he loves Kris like he loves the music when it pours effortlessly from his throat, when he feels a song so perfectly he has an eerie sense of déjà vu. His love for Kris makes him feel safe, because he has nothing to offer which Kris would want, and Kris would never take what Adam doesn’t offer. And yet, and yet, Adam is frightened of what he could give up if Kris would only ask. But he knows Kris would never ask, so he steals each moment and hordes up the simple gift of being happy, being content.

What is between them is this…the sudden shocked recognition that their souls dream the same, what binds them are the notes of music they can sometimes see dancing in the absence the other has left behind. It serves no purpose, this bond, lends no visible delight, but it is necessary to him in a way Adam can’t quite explain to others.

Kris says the strangest things when he is exhausted and near to sleep. Once, on that endless road-trip, passing by some unnamed ton in the deep south, only the silence and the muted moonlight for company, Kris had leaned into him and said, “I love you like I love my callouses.” Adam had laughed, his throat raw from the concert a few hours ago, a little painful, and hugged Kris. Kris hadn’t laughed, he had trailed his rough guitarist’s fingers over Adam’s face, and looked so unbearably sad Adam had turned away from the grief.

He thinks now that he gets what Kris meant, all irrelevant emotions frozen around the time of scars. His love for Kris and Kris’s for him is always going to be measured in terms of scars, invisible but ever-present.

Once, a few months after the tour had ended, and just before their albums were about to drop, Kris pulled Adam out of the studio, out of L.A. and out of himself with a simple request. He said, “Come home with me, “ and Adam, dazed with the novelty of being asked, of being able to give, followed him to Arkansas.

Of all the memories he gathers of that time this is what he turns to. It is old, and the beach is deserted, bleak. Adam is standing with his hands in his pockets, hunched into his jacket against the wind, while Kris skips stones into the water. He is angry, the tension in his set shoulders, the stubborn chin. The last pebble sinks into the dark waters and Kris marches back to Adam. His voice breaks when he says, “Why won’t you ever ask me Adam? Why?”. Adam cannot tell him that he has only ever loved Kris without wanting anything, that asking him for what Kris would so easily give would diminish what he feels. He folds Kris against him, and rocks him slowly, Kris is angry, he struggles to get away, he pounds his fists on Adam’s chest and rages, but finally subsides. They stand quietly, the evening darkening around them, the sounds of crickets and the wind blowing over the water mixed with birdsong.

“I love you”, he murmurs into Kris’s hair, and Kris’s hands tighten in his jacket lapel. “I’ll never get to love you.”, he says softly, like a promise, kisses Kris’s forehead.

Kris leans away, not leaving the shelter of Adam’s arms, just enough that he can look up at Adam. His eyes are wet, but he is smiling, a serene, beautiful smile. “I can’t endure this,” he says, “But I will for you.”

He traces a cross on Adam’s chest, and says, like a prayer, “I am distressed for you, my brother Jonathan; greatly beloved were you to me; your love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women.”

The first stars of the night shine in the dark sky.


End file.
